Fate, Change, Debt
by nightgigjo
Summary: The fates have not been kind to this spoiled princeling - but then again, they *are* trying to teach him a lesson. /* Companion to/continuation of "A Way Forward". ON HIATUS RE: REVAMP/COMPLETION
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: HP references are books+movies: current AU timeline is a few years post-Deathly Hallows sans Epilogue. Avengers/Marvel Cinematic Universe: AU timeline _starts_ post-Dark World. Minor spoiler alert for that (fact, not substance).**

* * *

...oooOOOooo...

Thence come the maidens mighty in wisdom,  
Three from the dwelling down 'neath the tree;  
Urth is one named, Verthandi the next,-  
On the wood they scored,- and Skuld the third.  
Laws they made there, and life allotted  
To the sons of men, and set their fates.

("Völuspá [The Prophecy of the Seeress]", from the _Poetic Edda_)

...oooOOOooo...

Three robed figures sat in the shade, gazing into the still waters at the foot of the great ash tree. There were dappled reflections on the water, not of leaves and the canopy above, but of worlds, of lives. The one most central in their view belonged to a pale, raven-haired youth, twice-royal son of a king, daughter of a queen, rival to a prince. Troubled. Troublesome.

The oldest of them pointed, and one small life at the edge of the water came forward easily, willingly, and placed itself next to the one they'd been studying. This image was curious, open, steady.

Yes, they nodded. Fulcrum.

The youngest among them indicated another: it was shimmering, brightness both magnified and obscured. It drifted, serene and purposeful, not once faltering in its direction.

Yes, they nodded. Impetus.

The third considered long, before adding another life. She knew, perhaps better than the others, that her choice would seal all, that each of the others would be distinctly, irrevocably changed. Then she noticed an image, quiet and dark, intent and watchful. It was sending out pale, glowing tendrils, touching other images, cautiously, as though to discover their shape or meaning. She looked at the life inquiringly, and it pulsed gently, curious, silvery bright threads reaching out to the constellation the three were creating. It turned its attention to the third robed figure.

Yes, it pulsed. Catalyst.

...oooOOOooo...

Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look;  
He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.

(_Julius Caesar_, Act I, Scene ii)

...oooOOOooo...

A young soldier paused to look out over Asgard, in the last moments of sunset. The sun was fading, but the moons were already high and bright, and the city below him glowed with the fires of feasting, revelry, and raucous ribaldry that was the hallmark of victory to these people. His people, once. But they had ceased their mourning after the minimum nine days, although the passing of a prince demanded much more.

Then there had been another victory in 'glorious' battle, paltry by anyone's standards, and not much worth celebrating. His brother, certainly, would be there. He was a great one for carousing, when he wasn't moping after that..._Midgardian_. The soldier's face flickered briefly, bronzed skin waxing pale, though it might have been a trick of the moonlight. His mind left off the topic of unsatisfactory relatives, and concentrated instead on the task at hand. He was on the watchtower, the best vantage point in the realm, and the time was rapidly approaching.

As the last vestiges of sunlight faded, leaving the velvet night overhead, the soldier took one last look at the place that had been his home. He had an appointment to keep.

Resolutely, he turned his back on his adoptive homeland, walked purposefully across the tower platform, turned a corner, and vanished.

...oooOOOooo...

One is astonished in the study of history, at the recurrence of the  
idea that evil must be forgotten, distorted, skimmed over...  
[History then] loses its value as an incentive and an example; it  
paints perfect men and noble nations, but it does not tell the truth.

(W.E.B. Du Bois)

...oooOOOooo...

A tousle-headed woman sat at a broad table, littered with dusty tomes, curling tubes, and beakers bubbling over hovering flames. The late afternoon sunshine was streaming in through the open tent flap, giving the various potions an inner gleam.

The woman's brow furrowed, deepening the lines of concentration that were becoming a permanent feature on her otherwise youthful face. An errant brown curl fell in her eyes, and she tucked it behind her ear absently with the tip of a scarred and pitted pencil. Her bleach-speckled trousers and graying tee shirt, relics of her life before the War, showed signs of both constant wear and painstaking care.

The passage she was in the process of translating was a particularly tricky one - the ancients certainly had a multitude of uses for the ablative! - when there was a call from outside.

"You there, 'Mione?" said a not-quite hesitant, distinctly male voice.

Hermione froze, but exhaled gustily once she recognized who it was. Quickly she slipped the manuscript she'd been translating under one of the books on the table. Only then did she rise from her chair, giving one of the potions a careful counterclockwise stir before crossing to the threshold. There was a lanky, red-headed man slouching at the entrance to the tent.

"Ronald," she said, not bothering to invite him in.

"There you are," he said, ducking inside, not bothering to be invited. "When Harry said you needed to get away for a while, I didn't think he meant 'forever.'"

"Three weeks is hardly 'forever'," Hermione scoffed, stepping in Ron's way to prevent him coming all the way in the tent. "Besides," she hedged, "I thought you could use the room at the Burrow."

"Ginny doesn't mind sharing, you know that," said Ron. Hermione was skeptical. Truth be told, he didn't believe it, either. "Well, even if _she_ does, _I_ wouldn't..." he said, waggling his eyebrows.

"Ronald Bilius...oh why do I even _bother_," she said, her aggrieved sigh quickly losing momentum. This fight wasn't worth the energy anymore. "Look" she said wearily, "I'm not going to marry you, alright?"

"What?" Ron replied, incredulous. "You mean all those years were just...wasted?"

"Apparently," she replied archly, "as I've spent most of them trying to explain to you that I'm just. Not. Ready. I've..." she trailed off, wondering how much she could trust him. "I've just got lots to do. Anyway, I think it's more a matter of _if_ than _when_ anymore."

Ron looked at her askance, an expression of mixed hope and pity on his face. She was coming to hate that look. "Alright, Hermione," he said, his voice a study in careful acquiescence. "What about the pleasantries, then?" His tone changed quickly to one of friendly mockery. "Hullo, Ron! How are you?" he said, mimicking a lighter, higher voice than his own. _Another_ of her favorite behaviors.

"I'm working, Ron," she replied gruffly, "and I know how you and the entire clan are - Ginny keeps me informed." Well, that wasn't _strictly_ a lie.

The ginger's mood was subdued by a sliver of a degree. "What are you working on that's so important you can't even speak civilly to an old chum?" he replied, with a hint of accusation, especially on the last word.

As infuriating as it was, Hermione knew she wouldn't get rid of Ron without giving him something. "A history...of the War," she replied, a trifle unsteadily.

Ron scoffed, "Is that all? But there's one already! That, oh what's-his-name, that Snippet fellow wrote it, ages ago. They're already using it at Hogwarts, from what I've heard."

Hermione grunted in disgust. "Berol Snippet was nowhere near the fighting, and he certainly never bothered to talk any of us, as you'll recall. And I've read his 'book', if you can dignify it with the term, and there's not a shred of _nuance_ in it. It sounds like he interviewed Fudge with a Quick-Quotes Quill. It's a Ministry-line apologia, and they're calling it _history_."

Ron looked dismayed, mostly at Hermione's vehemence, but didn't pursue the topic further. "Well, what about St. Mungo's? Weren't you doing research there, or something?"

"That," Hermione suppressed a shudder, turning it into a lopsided shrug. "I was doing research, yes, trends in birth rates. Mainly comparing those of Pureblood houses and those with Muggle relations."

"Why, wanted to see how many kids you're avoiding having?" Ron laughed, but with a perceptible edge.

Hermione ignored this. "I noticed that most Pureblood families produced very few offspring - yours being the notable exception - and that Muggle-borns tended to have siblings," she explained. "I was curious to see if there was a discernible pattern."

"And?" Ron sounded genuinely intrigued. "Did you find out anything?"

Hermione cleared her throat, hesitating. "What I found," she said, mouth suddenly dry, "was that some Pureblood families _did_ have multiple children. All the records were spelled to be anonymous, but I could identify most of the Sacred Twenty-Eight from the raw data." She glanced briefly at Ron, whose eyes were beginning to glaze over. "What I found," she reiterated, "was that children had gone missing."

Ron's gaze snapped immediately back into focus. "Missing? Missing how?"

"All records would cease, but without mention of an accident or death," Hermione explained. "Sometimes their names would even be scratched from the parchment, as if they'd never existed. At anywhere between the ages of four and ten, children have disappeared, from multiple families. It's not just one or two isolated cases, either: at least twenty have disappeared in the last decade."

Ron blustered with suppressed rage and utter disbelief. "But, surely someone's noticed? That many children can't just disappear. Did you tell anyone about this? The matron?"

Hermione made a face. "I did speak to the matron. I was even circumspect about it - I just mentioned seeing odd mistakes in the records. She pretended to misunderstand and bustled off. I received a letter next morning that my research permit had been rescinded."

"Wow," Ron muttered after a short span. "That...that's _creepy_."

"It has me worried," said Hermione. "Someone in the Ministry doesn't want anyone nosing about."

"Have you talked to Harry about this?" Ron inquired sharply, but then shook his head. "No, of course you've talked to Harry already." He started to grumble something under his breath, but thought better of it. "Look," he said, resting a hand on her shoulder, definitive concern etched in his face, "I'll keep my ears open at the Ministry, but I know better than to ask anyone directly, and so should you, now. If your inquiry got that kind of quick response, someone's keeping tabs. Just…be careful, alright? Lying low might not be the worst thing."

Hermione looked at him steadily. "You know where I'll be."

"Best if not too many other people do," Ron grunted, then gave a rueful chuckle. "Yes, being an Auror has made me go all suspicious. I'll be as bad as old Mad-Eye before long." He scoffed at the image, then sobered. "Will you...please, take care of yourself."

Hermione just closed her eyes and gave a slight nod. Ron bent over and gave her a peck on the cheek, and she turned away, going back to her work. She didn't bother to watch him go.

But then, she didn't have to.


	2. Chapter 2

...oooOOOooo…

Harry rubbed the bridge of his nose, his head and brain aching with fatigue. Leaving the Ministry for an apprenticeship at St. Mungo's had been the best thing, of course, but that didn't stop the long hours of a Healer's day from being just as exhausting as chasing down the last of the Death Eaters. It was also less likely to induce the same adrenaline rush that had made the Department of Magical Law Enforcement such an exciting place to work.

Still, he was a Master of Death. He much preferred to be preventing it, rather than inflicting it.

Between his reputation as a war hero and Rita Skeeter's scathing biographies, reception of Harry Potter, Auror, had always been a mixed bag. More often than not, his presence on an Auror squad had endangered his comrades, usually much more than the protection he provided. He found that his main objective, on any assignment, was to protect people, and when that had occasionally extended to keeping a captured Death Eater from dying of their Auror-inflicted wounds - well, some of his fellow Aurors weren't particularly content with that. Ron never had a problem, of course, but Ronald Weasley was one of Harry's best friends, and understood better than just about everyone how much a death - any death - meant to Harry.

He could look Death in the face, and accept it for what it was, but he was duty-bound to do something about it, no matter the cost.

The cost, it turned out, had been higher than he'd anticipated. The friends he'd made at the Ministry - at least, the ones who were relatively well-positioned - hadn't been particularly cordial to him since the incident with the Lestranges. One of the last raids that Kingsley Shacklebolt had spearheaded before being elected Minister for Magic, at the end of a months-long manhunt for two of Voldemort's fiercest supporters, had come to a close in a ramshackle little place in the back of nowhere, when one spell or other had set the place on fire, trapping Rabastan Lestrange inside. Harry had insisted, quite correctly, that the man should be retrieved from the flames. If he died, they'd have lost their one good lead in finding his brother, Rodolphus. He could also have set up the blaze himself, to fake his death and make another escape. But that wasn't what had concerned Harry when he'd heard the man's panicked screams, and he'd realized that Rabastan, in that instant, was facing his own death. He cared nothing for the case, the law, or the just imprisonment of one of Voldemort's most evil henchmen. _No one deserved to die that way, no matter what crimes they'd committed._ He couldn't let that happen to anyone.

Harry had always been as rubbish at hiding his feelings as he was at lying.

He, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, had shown compassion for a Death Eater. For a man who'd tortured countless people, and killed who knows how many more, all for the cause of blood purity, in the name of the darkest wizard who ever lived.

He didn't blame them for not understanding. But that didn't make the cold shoulders any easier to live with.

Harry replaced his spectacles and blinked a couple of times, trying to focus on the parchment in front of him. Since Hermione's hurried departure a few days ago, he'd been surreptitiously double-checking the family record of each patient on his rounds, just in case there were any alterations or omissions like the ones Hermione had found. She'd just had time to tell him what to be on the lookout for, before she scurried down the hall towards the nearest fireplace, flinging a handful of Floo powder at it and disappearing. Harry was still not entirely certain that Hermione hadn't simply Apparated, although the flare in the fireplace had been convincing.

But, if she was right about what she'd found, then for Hermione Granger - brightest witch of her year, hardened veteran of the Second Wizarding War - the _last_ place she would have shouted for the Floo Network to take her would be the Ministry of Magic.

...oooOOOooo…

The glamour dropped the moment Loki stepped through the hidden portal. There was no need to disguise his identity here - even Heimdall couldn't see into these little recesses in the fabric of reality. They were very like the curtained alcoves provided for lovers' trysts - narrow, shadowed, and perfectly suited for all manner of clandestine dealings, ever concealing goings-on from a prying eye.

They also connected to a number of tenuous pathways between the realms. He'd made use of these numerous times - to make his way to Jotunheim and the Svartalfar, and to take himself off whenever deals went sour.

That had been happening rather too much for Loki's taste - so often thanks to the traveling freak show calling themselves the 'Avengers' - but this time he'd managed to escape their notice as well.

His brother's show of mourning had been quite spectacular - simultaneously intense, brooding, and poised - a true prince of Asgard, behaving exactly as the masses of Asgardians expected. Loki had never believed for an instant that looking the part would make Thor worthy, or able, to rule. But that was the way Asgardians thought. Give them a blue-eyed golden idol, and they'd bow down and worship. It didn't matter if their leaders _were_ honest and forthright, as long as they _appeared_ to be.

Well, Loki knew quite a lot about keeping up appearances.

He walked quickly to the shallow end of the alcove, gently extending a pale, delicate hand until the tips of his fingers brushed the edges of the next portal through. The sensation was much like running one's hands over an ancient inscription, save that the slivers of reality had the feel of various metals, rather than wood or stone.

The one leading to the Chitauri homeworld slithered. Loki shuddered, hoping he hadn't been noticed. As the archer had observed: doors can open from both sides.

The sleek sensation of his chosen corridor passed under his touch, and Loki's habitual smirk widened into a toothy grin. This way would take him in the direction he needed to make contact with his...appointment. And it might be nice, Loki reflected, to drop in on one of his children who could - and would - speak to him.

With images of his eventual triumph clear in his mind, he stepped forward into blackness and followed the winding path to Hel.

...oooOOOooo…

* * *

**Author's Note: Thank you to all followers, favoriters and reviewers! Chapter 3 should tie things together, and allow me to post the final installment of "A Way Forward," as well.**


	3. Chapter 3

...oooOOOooo…

The golden crest of a helm glinted in the pale light, as the hulking reptilian form lifted its head. Tracking the errant, arrogant prince had been ridiculously easy - no one else in Asgard possessed such strong ability, and the peculiar quality of Loki's heritage made his every move stand out: the crackling electricity of a Jotunn that nevertheless left the echoing hum of Asgardian magic in its wake. The moment his hand had brushed the outer reaches of their realm, their reality, Loki had given away his position, and his purpose, to his unrealized, unforgiving enemy.

Loki had not, contrary to reports, been directly responsible for the decimation of the Chitauri forces - _her_ forces - but the hubris of Laufey's runt had been the cause of their slaughter at the hands of a thoroughly inferior foe. One shot had wiped out most of the warrior drones, and a number of the more capable soldiers. The few survivors had limped back to their homeworld, ship damaged beyond salvage, and the energy emanating from the scorched and fractured hull had brought sickness and death to countless others of their race before the source of the disease had been discerned, and a force field erected around the entirety of the wreckage to contain the worst of the contagion.

The numbers of the Chitauri were diminished, but their rage had intensified. Where once they would have relied on strength to overwhelm their foe, they were forced now to forge a new plan of attack, one of stealth and cunning. The adoptive Asgardian had always had friends, or at least reinforcements, preferring the cowardly use of magic or retreat, rather than risk death in open battle.

She had learned much, watching Loki work. _She_ would give him that death using his own weapons - stealth, deception, slow-working poison. It would be a genuine pleasure to watch, to beat him at his own games.

Sitting alone in her chamber, she motioned to her door-guard to enter. He dropped his gaze, as was proper, before approaching her presence.

"Mistress," he rumbled, kneeling.

She leaned down to place a scaly finger under the soldier's chin, drawing his gaze up to meet hers. "You will need an upgrade" she said, placing in his upraised palm a small glistening creature, like a metallic millipede, which coiled itself onto the flat of the soldier's hand and integrated its circuitry into his own.

"Go," she said, casting into his mind Loki's image. "Hunt your quarry." The newly-minted assassin nodded, eyes glinting with a blue fire as the upgrade reprogrammed his cybernetic components to prepare him for the task she had set.

...oooOOOooo…

Gaining entrance to the trail he sought was precisely like opening a book with thick, velvet curtains for pages. Loki let the folds fall shut behind him, and wended his way along a twisting corridor. The passage was just tall enough for him to walk, and only slightly more wide than his narrow form. Where the Bifrost was sleek, sparkling with the reflections of numerous stars, this path was dark, littered with jutting corners and edges, more rough-hewn obsidian than polished opal.

The whole of reality was crazed with cracks such as this, and yet no one of Asgard knew of their existence, let alone traversed them as often as he did. They were his secret, yet another way in which the mind of Loki outstripped those of the boring, boorish kin with whom he'd been cursed. It had taken years to even find them, and a full century of walking to know them all. _They_ had never bothered to wonder if such paths even existed, and they had the audacity to call _him_ lazy.

The defile gradually widened, until it joined a larger corridor, one that would eventually connect to a well-traveled way that was forbidden to Heimdall's sight. A guardian among the living had no business with the paths of the dead.

Loki, however, had something of a special dispensation - at least if he went to see his daughter.

As he climbed down into the smoothed, worn passage, something niggled at the back of his mind, the minutest of vibrations on spider-silk, telling him that he was _watched_. It could very well be his daughter's attention on him, he mused. He was, after all, entering her territory. Loki sought to push the premonition aside, but a hint of doubt lingered, undermining the magician's confidence. With a glint of worry in his eyes, Loki slowed his progress, pacing more deliberately as he stepped on the wider way, to Hel.

...oooOOOooo…

The three gazed over the shimmering waters at the destiny they had woven for the young prince. As they watched, the constellation became clouded with the activity of smaller creatures, like midges swarming at dusk.

_They come_, the third one intoned, _for the debt that is owed._ The others nodded understanding.

_He will pay_, said the first, _but not in the currency of their choosing._

...oooOOOooo…

**Author's Note:** I am quite sorry for the long delay in posting. Nothing like being down with a stomach bug. But! All better now, and back to writing.

I've decided to keep the chapters shorter than they were originally turning out; I had a hard time deciding on the order of sections if I got more than three or four.

Things will follow Loki for a little while longer, perhaps one or two more chapters, before the two converging storylines manage to meet up, officially. Another chapter or two here before "A Way Forward" will finish, as well.

With any luck, I'll be able to update at the rate of one or two chapters per week.


	4. Chapter 4

...oooOOOooo…

The soldier didn't once consider what was to happen to him, once the mission was completed. It would only distract from the task at hand.

He followed the slim, pale figure as he threaded his way through the secondary passage, while the upgrade formulated the necessary tactics for his mission. The soldier, formerly a straightforward being, was downloading and incorporating an education in stealth and deception, and the remainder of his conscious mind was impressed. Before, he would have been baffled by such suggestions, and the fact that the upgrade's parameters did not seem to include killing his target.

Indeed, his mind considered, he would have named the feeble, scaleless Asgardian _prey_.

The upgrade's probability algorithm completed its calculations just as his quarry stepped into the wider passage and dropped into a crouch. The soldier felt a sharp pain in his left arm, and stared as he watched a tube-like metallic ridge forming on the surface of his cybernetic exoskeleton. His arm wrenched around, rigid and perfectly straight, until his hand, fingers splayed, was level with the kneeling figure's head, flattened palm directed at the base of the pale man's spine. The Chitauri felt a surge of power run through his body, coursing from the tips of every extremity except the motionless hand. The energy pulsed as it reached his immobile left forearm, centering just below the medial joint. The upgrade mechanism, which had couched itself in his palm, began to glow slightly green, slithered between the armored plates at his wrist, and burrowed its way to the nexus of energy at his elbow. The hand, he saw, was shrinking, warping, falling away.

Time distorted and slowed as the soldier watched, blinked in disbelief, as he was drained of the last of his life-force, and a cybernetic projectile emerged from his hand.

...oooOOOooo…

The way of the dead smelled like a grave: cold, earthen walls crumbling, floor betraying no footstep. Loki's senses pricked again, as soon as his foot touched the dark and moulding passageway. This time he was certain; it was his daughter's mind, alert to his presence, harsh and forbidding as ever. Her voice came into his mind without form, giving him her words without sound.

_Do you dare tread the paths of the dead?_

Loki crouched on the ground, steadied his mind, shutting out all sense of his surroundings. _I seek passage through Helheimr, and audience with my daughter._

_So, _the voice replied, _you remember your kin, now that the time of trial is begun?_

Disconcerted, Loki hesitated. He had come so far, and complete triumph was almost in his hand. _But_, his thoughts shakily betrayed him, _my plans are nearly come to fruition._

_There are...other plans, _she said, faltering. _I will not see you._

Loki was incensed. _What?_ _I am your kin. I am your father!_

The voice that replied was faint, weary. _It is, _she said sadly, _not by my command._

Loki saw, then, in his mind, a vision of three Jotunn maidens, tending Yggdrasil the World Tree, weaving the fates of men, and of gods.

_Nornir,_ he said, voice cracking in sudden terror.

The connection broke, and Loki's sense of his surroundings rushed to the fore. Instinctively he spun on his heel, just as a slight _click_ sounded behind him.

A sharp pain in his side brought him back to his knees. He felt as though he'd been shot, not by an arrow, but by some kind of living thing. Whatever it was, it pierced his side, slowed, but did not stop. Whatever it was did not rely on mere momentum to do its damage.

Loki stared, disbelieving, at the horror from which that wretched projectile had emerged. What once must have been a formidable Chitauri warrior was rapidly decomposing from the outside in, limbs, head, torso crumbling as he watched. In seconds, all that remained was a hollow metallic tube less than a meter long, glowing green and emitting a low, steady hum.

Horrified, Loki tried again to stand, to flee, stumbling over his feet as he backed away from the remains of his supposed assassin. A strange impulse overtook him, to walk toward the heap of dust, to pick up the gleaming metal tube instead. He stood for a moment, motionless, mind and body at war, the one urging retreat, and the other heeding some unknown order to advance.

_The three stood, watching. The first leaned over the pool, placing a finger on the surface of the water below Loki's image. The water trembled, and began to swirl. The vortex was no larger than a pinprick, but the speck at its epicenter was the purple-black of deep space._

A smooth, glittering tunnel opened behind the magician, but Loki did not see it. Mastery over his own body consumed all of his concentration, his will bent on overpowering this unseen force that strove to make him its puppet. A corner of his mind mocked his efforts to resist this enslavement, reminded him that he was already similarly obliged, bound to a master who would not hesitate to punish him, severely, should he fail in his current endeavour.

_NO_, the rest of his mind screamed, _I would rather DIE._

The sudden jolt of terror broke the stalemate. Fear and panic drew up unknown reserves of will, and with the last of his ebbing strength, Loki forced his unwilling feet backward. The rent in the fabric in the universe drew him in, and he fell into darkness.

...oooOOOooo…

**Author's Note: **The remaining ends are tied up in the seventh and final chapter of "A Way Forward." The story will then continue on here.

Dear reviewers: I appreciate the speculation! I won't comment on specifics, of course, but rest assured, Sirius makes his appearance in this story next chapter.


	5. Chapter 5

Maintaining consciousness was more difficult now than Loki had ever found it. Even in the aftermath of the fiercest battles, or the most profound tortures, he'd been able to keep his head, or at least shelter part of his mind from the onslaught of fatigue and despair.

Now, simply remaining upright and stationary took all the efforts of his not-insignificant will. Something - whatever it was that had felled him in the tunnels before Helheimr - was battling for control of his body, as well as diverting all reserves of his strength to its own purpose.

The thing itself seemed bewildered as to what that purpose actually was. The parasite had gained control over much of his body, and seemed to be concentrating on his legs and feet. He staggered about, stiff-legged, lower limbs carrying the rest of him along with every step he couldn't countermand. Loki could briefly regain control, but if he dropped his guard in the slightest, he was spun about, as his feet headed off into a completely different direction.

This exasperating, erratic foolishness, as much as anything, fueled his rebellion against it. He could sense the projectile as it slowly wormed its way through his searing flesh, headed apparently for his spine. There was an uncomfortable thought. It had that much control over him already, and it wasn't yet attached to anything vital.

He thought to catch hold of it, and fling it away with magic, or cause it to disintegrate, or find another host, but no power gathered around the spells. In desperation, he tried to make a grab for a stick, sharp rock, anything with which he might _dig_ the blasted thing out, but his fingers only twitched slightly, his arms refusing direction.

Nearly delirious with fatigue, he had all but forgotten the huge black animal trotting steadily behind him. Although he'd cursed it, ignored it, even thrown a stone or two in frustration, still it shadowed him. It kept its distance, to be sure, but it was always attentive to him, and never very far.

As another lurching step propelled Loki forward, he collided with some sort of invisible barrier and fell abruptly onto the packed earth. The creature was on him in an instant, glistening nose prodding him gently to _get up_. Loki shook his head in puzzlement as the thought dropped unbidden into his mind, and struggled again to his feet.

Loki turned to examine the creature. He wondered briefly if this was one of Fenrir's get - the idea of rescue at the hands of a grand- or great-grandchild was wryly amusing. The creature certainly was large enough to pass for a dire wolf. Its eyes, a silvery blue, looked at him straight on for a moment, then began to paw at the ground near Loki's feet. It was then that Loki realized that his legs had stopped moving of their own accord. They seemed _content_ to be here.

He looked down to where the wolf-creature was digging, and saw the trace of magic just under the drifted leaves. It was a delicate thread, as spider silk under the dry brush, or a line of mould in a decaying tree. The magician followed the magic upwards from the forest floor, and began to examine the barrier in earnest. It wasn't invisible, but he doubted any but a powerful mage like himself could have seen it. There was a slight golden shimmer, which might seem, to any lesser being, to be sunlight streaming through a break in the canopy. Except that sunbeams didn't curve.

The wolf-creature was sniffing around the edges of the enchantment, and at once looked up excitedly at Loki, wagging its shaggy black tail. It looked _happy_, of all things.

Loki stretched out an ivory hand, and cautiously brushed the barrier with his fingertips. The resulting surge of magic that knocked him back to the ground was some of the purest, most electrifying he'd ever felt. It coursed through him in a torrent of power, then flashed back through the barrier and away into the distance.

It had...examined him. Someone very powerful would very soon know where he was - and had a clear idea of his weakened condition.

Loki had never been keen on confrontation, particularly when his opponent had him at this much of a disadvantage. Taking caution to be the better part of valor, the magician threw a quick glance around, and, seeing no one, started to walk away. As though stuck in a bog, his feet refused to budge. Whether he attempted to saunter, amble, or sprint, no matter how Loki tried to move himself, he failed. He couldn't even take his feet out of his boots.

His panic only increased at the sight if a hooded and cloaked figure striding through the wood towards him. In desperation, Loki looked appealingly at the wolf-creature, who was watching the approaching figure expectantly.

_Wonderful_, he thought despairingly. _This is just what I need._

The wolf looked at him sharply, head slightly cocked, and gave a small half-bark. _Yes_, it said.

The reassurances of a mind-reading animal held precious little comfort for the prince, as he continued his futile struggle against the entropy of his lower limbs. As the figure neared, he gave one final burst of will, and one heel slid away from the barrier. With a sneer of haughty triumph on his face, Loki staggered backward, but the black wolf rushed behind him and stood, bristled and snarling. He was so startled by the creature's change of temper that as he spun to face the growling beast, he pitched over and landed, for the third time, flat on his back.

Between the impact of his head on the hard earth, and the parasite leeching the last of his strength, all Loki saw, before surrendering to oblivion, were a few wisps of dark hair framing a sun-darkened face.

* * *

**Author's Note:** If you're confused about where this big black whosiwhastit came from, go back and read my story "A Way Forward."

If you _have_ read both, you'll be relieved to see that the stories have finally dovetailed. Hooray!

I was so excited to get this chapter finished today that I went ahead and posted it. If any of you lovely R&R-ers see something awkward, confusing, or just plain wrong, let me know in review or PM, and I'll fix it.


	6. Chapter 6

Hermione stared at the fallen man. When she'd seen him standing, he had looked lean, but not gaunt, with skin the color of ivory and long, shining black hair. The face was sunken now, as someone close to starvation. His hair, too, was growing unkempt and tangled, although he hadn't moved at all since he hit the ground. As she watched, his color drained, not to the dull grey of a corpse, but to a pale, icy blue. Lines were appearing, too, on his face, raised like welts, not inflamed or red, but in the same frosty hue. A pattern emerged, markings resembling ritual tattoos, or the ridges on a dragon's skull.

Whatever magic had made him look human, it was leaving him.

She felt for the flow of any magic around her, and felt only her own. Nothing was escaping the being's body, except the blood seeping from underneath the leather jerkin he wore.

It was then that she spotted the dog.

It loped out from under the undergrowth, where it had hidden after the man fell. A huge, black dog, almost wolf-like, with piercing blue eyes.

_Snuffles_.

Hermione looked at the animal for some time before she spoke. The resemblance was uncanny. Impossible as it was, this creature looked so much like Sirius had in his Animagus form. She crouched low to the ground, offering an outstretched hand for the dog to sniff. It approached incautiously and sat down in front of her, prodding the proffered hand with its wet nose. Automatically, Hermione ran her palm over the dog's snout to the back of its head, giving it a good scratch behind the ears.

Underneath the sleek fur, she felt the tingle of magic.

The dog looked up at her and winked.

Hermione cocked an eyebrow. "Look, I don't know if you are who I think you are, but we need to take care of this friend of yours." The dog thumped its tail on the ground, stood on its feet, and waited.

"Well then," Hermione said, rising, "let's get on with it, shall we?" She reached out with her senses, but felt no human presence in the area, wizard or Muggle. Hermione cursed herself for a soft-hearted fool, very carefully levitated the body, and carried it through the wards, back home, with the large black dog following a few steps behind.

..ooOOoo..

Loki awoke to the smell of wood smoke. His eyes shot open, and immediately he felt at his belt for his dagger. What met his hand was a layer of soft gauze. He frowned at the bandage, and started to sit up.

"I shouldn't get up yet, if I were you," came a voice from somewhere nearby. "I didn't know what you were, so I only bound up your wound."

Loki's frown deepened. "What I am?" he queried.

"You looked human at first, but then," the voice said, "you changed." A face came into view as a young woman knelt on the ground next to him. She was obviously young, mahogany ringlets framing a fine-boned, nut-brown face. The speckles that dotted her nose and cheeks made her look younger yet. Her thin, plain weave shirt and trousers reminded him of that Jane Foster of whom his brother was so wretchedly fond.

Loki sighed in frustration. Perfect, he thought, more Midgardians.

The woman scowled at him. "You needn't look at me like that. I stopped you from bleeding to death, but I hold myself under no obligation to do anything further for you. Behave as you wish, but if you can't at least be civil, you'll get nothing else from me."

Loki took a breath, and exhaled slowly. As much as he hated to admit it, what he needed right now was help. The pain in his innards was still increasing, though he had doubted before that were possible. He winced, and struggled to prop himself up on his elbows. "Look," he said, then gave up. He slumped back down on the earth. "I can't," he tried again, eyes shut tight in an effort to speak instead of shout, "I'd...rather not continue on like this."

The woman hummed in her throat, thinking. "If you would like, I could help you sit up. Then we could have a proper introduction."

Loki nodded assent, and steeled himself against the pain that movement would inevitably involve. To his astonishment, the woman didn't move, but instead he rose a few inches off the ground, as though borne aloft by invisible hands, and he came to rest in a rather comfortable chair.

"_Seithr_," he breathed. "_You_ are the mage."

"Witch," she replied, stiffening slightly, "but yes." She pulled up a small camp chair and sat across from him, and began absently tending the fire. "You are acquainted with magic, then? But you don't expect it of me, I see. Because I'm, what did you call me? 'Midgardian'?"

"I never said," he began hurriedly, before she interrupted him.

"True, you never spoke," she said, "but your thoughts are quite loud, I assure you. You are a wizard, or mage, if you prefer, but something has happened to your powers. What I don't know is what you are."

Loki, to spite his decreasing confidence, fell back on bravado, giving her a cocksure grin. "Oh, I'm like nothing you've ever seen," he said, and his eyes twinkled with a mischievous ferocity.

The woman scoffed, unimpressed. "Red eyes and blue skin gave it away, I'm afraid."

"The...what?" Loki looked down at his hands in shock, and there they were, blue as day.

"Not what you expected then? No, your glamour or whatever wore off - I watched it. Look, I don't know who you are, or where you're from, but if I were going to do anything horrible to you, it would have been done by now," she shrugged. "Not that your dog would have let me, of course."

Loki's temper flared. "That...creature is none of mine!" he shouted. _Odin's missing orb_, he cursed silently, _this woman is insufferable_.

The woman in question remained stock still, waves of cold fury radiating from her at this insult. Suddenly her voice filled his mind. _Yes_, she said, _no one likes a know-it-all, you foolish git. You're not the only one with a temper. So come to grips with your problem, or stop wasting my time._

Reflexively, Loki reached for a spell to silence this impertinent Midgardian, but no spell came. The parasite had finally drained every drop of his magic. He was as helpless as the pitiful beings his brother so fiercely sought to protect. He tried to reply, but the sound caught in his throat. Any uttered word threatened to choke him with grief.

The woman watched all this, and, after a moment, closed her eyes and nodded. "I'll leave you to it, then," she said levelly, but not unkindly. She rose from her place by the fire, and walked over to the tent and lifted the flap.

Just before going in, she turned back toward him. "My name's Hermione," she said quietly, "Hermione Granger." The man remained perfectly still, eyes reflecting the flickering flames.

"Loki," he said finally, in a voice hollow and distant. "Loki, of Asgard." He stared into the crackling fire, watching the shadows lengthen with the waning daylight.

* * *

**A/N:** Next chapter is written, but needs fleshing out. Should be up relatively soon.


	7. Chapter 7

Hermione stepped into the tent, then stood a long moment, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom. Like most wizard tents, it was quite a bit more spacious on the inside than one might normally infer from its outer measurements. She had never gone in for the showier varieties, which sprouted chimneys and gables and the like. Hers would pass as a Muggle tent quite easily. It was obviously large and intended for extended camping, but it was a very simple, canvas affair, of a sort often used by medieval re-enactment types: a wedge tent, with a door at each end.

The front was carefully marked with an embroidered lion in the corner of each door flap. The front door went to the front room - a sparsely furnished space, containing a large wooden table, a trunk which doubled as a bench, a rough handwoven rug and a small but sturdy cot. All explicable items, if not explicitly normal by Muggle standards, but nothing beyond the pale. The back door, however, didn't lead outside at all, but to a second, much larger room.

With a flick of her fingers she set a fairy-light aglow, which bobbed and drifted until it hovered over her other uninvited guest. "And now," she said, with a voice more sad than weary, "I think I'm owed some explanation."

The large black dog had made himself quite comfortable, having arranged a nest out of the quilt that had once been draped over her cot. At the sound of Hermione's voice, he perked up his ears, sat up at attention, and gave her a tongue-lolling canine grin.

"Okay, so it's to be a guessing game, then," she sighed. "If I'm talking to an ordinary dog, no one is here to witness how I've gone round the twist."

The dog tilted his head to one side, watching and listening. "Alright, she said, "You look just like a friend - someone I lost a long time ago. He was my best friend's godfather, and one of the last connections he had to his dead parents. A friend who was killed by his cousin. I was there; I saw it happen. What I think I'm seeing _can't_ be possible. You cannot be him."

One of the dog's ears twitched, but he didn't move otherwise. Hermione glowered. "But," she said, "if you ARE him, and you have been alive all this time, then how dare you show up here, now, without so much as a word that you were alive?" A whimper escaped the dog, who tried to bury himself in the blanket. "And if that's true, why won't you just show yourself? You're here, behind my wards. You're as safe as it's possible to be! Your killer is dead! No one has looked for you in a decade! Why won't you just turn back into a person and _talk_ to me?"

The torrent of emotion, which Hermione had pent up for so long, rose up in an overwhelming flood. War, and its aftermath, had hardened her on the face of things, but that facade was maintained only because it was regularly reinforced by the hopelessness she battled, and defeated, daily. With grim determination against insurmountable odds, she could cope. Survive. Gain strength from bitterness, use it as a weapon. The prospect of feeling something that wasn't despair was terrifying, alien. In spite of her near-conviction that this was just some strange mongrel, and not really Sirius at all, the tiniest glimmer of hope that, just maybe, it was, that it could, perhaps, be him, brought the long sunken pain of the past welling back to the surface, where it broke. And she broke.

The dog leapt up, running circles around Hermione and her distress. When she had gathered herself, and calmed down a bit, he turned to paw at the blanket again. Hermione, somewhat startled, stared as the whining dog as it tried to burrow under the thoroughly inadequate covering. He got himself mostly underneath, only to poke his head out from under the blanket and gave Hermione a mournful look.

And then, she began to laugh.

"Oh, _Merlin_," she chortled, after the hysterical giggles had lapsed into chuckles and snorts, "how could I be so ridiculously _thick_! Stay here, I'll be back," she said, stepping through a second flap at the back of the tent.

When she returned, she held up her finds for his inspection. "These will fit, with any luck," she said, tossing them onto the trunk. The dog have a happy bark, as Hermione stepped back outside.

She stood there for a few minutes, breathing in the evening chill. Loki was, surprisingly, still sitting in the chair by the fire, which was dying down. From his bowed head, he was either meditating, or asleep. Hermione closed her eyes and concentrated: _ah, yes - asleep._ She fished a small bundle out of a basket near the entrance to the tent, and, walking quietly so as to not disturb his repose, took up a nearby branch and began to stir a well in the embers. She placed her burden, three bundles wrapped in aluminium, in the well, and gently covered them with the glowing coals. She laid the stick carefully down, letting the tip rest just at the point where she'd buried her treasures. She turned then, and sat down on her little stool to consider this Loki.

Named after a Norse god. A trickster figure, known for cunning and deceit as much as playfulness and mirth. She saw little of mirth in this man, or whatever he was, but much of what it could turn into, if a person suffered enough torment. He reminded her of Draco, oddly - all wit and prickles and boasting, set to protect any tender spot. _Bring me the hard-luck cases_, she thought wryly, _I'll set them aright._ A soft chuckle escaped her throat, and he stirred, eyelids opening a crack to reveal the eerie red glow beneath. A strange thing, that. It made her think of something she'd read, long ago, but she couldn't quite place it.

A small cough from the direction of the tent caught her attention. When she looked up, she could not take her eyes off the man standing there, shaggy hair and scraggly beard looking exactly as she remembered them. The welling in her eyes clouded the details, but she knew. She heard his mind, and knew him. He was ragged, and tired, and completely unchanged after nearly fifteen years' passage.

Wherever he had been, Sirius had come home.

* * *

**A/N: **I had no idea where this was going. But here we are. I can't wait to find out what happens next! I guess I should go write it, then. ^_^


	8. Chapter 8

From the door of the tent, Sirius looked out on the campfire's dying glow. There was very little else holding back the night, save the waning crescent that already hung low on the horizon. He watched as Hermione - older, now, grown to adulthood - buried something in the remains of the fire. She sat, deep in thought, and he couldn't help being proud of the responsible person she seemed to have grown into. He wondered why she was out in the middle of a forest, living in a tent, but the ward she'd created wasn't just powerful, it was elegant. A beautiful thing to behold, even with his dog-sight. Coming upon that barrier had given him an intense feeling of hope - at least the canine variety, which felt like the assurance of a good ear-scratch - and he'd realized then that he was somewhere very like home. The magic was familiar, as comforting as the scent of leaves or the way the dust felt in his fur.

And then, the magic had turned out to be Hermione's.

He recalled the words that Hel had spoken to him: he couldn't have his old life back, could not be anywhere over which she held sway, if he were to live on. So, wherever he was, there was no Hel, or she wasn't in control of the realm of the dead. But here he was, on Earth again, in England again, and where does he land on his feet? Of all the doorsteps in all the world, it had been hers.

The fates, perhaps, were kind after all.

He'd worried so much about those children, Harry and his friends, who had been at the center of so much of the chaos that had engulfed their lives, though it had also given him a new one. And here was definitive proof of their tenacity, their brilliance - Hermione had survived to become an incredibly powerful witch.

He hoped - he prayed - that Harry was still alive here, too.

That thought brought him out of his reverie. There was so much he didn't know, and so much he had missed in, what had she said? More than ten years? There was only one way to find out.

When he tried to speak, all that came out was a small croak, but Hermione was alert at once, rising abruptly when she saw him. He couldn't see her eyes, but her voice sounded as raw with emotion as he felt. "You...I almost didn't believe," she stammered as he stepped into the circle of firelight. "How is this even possible?"

Sirius felt his eyes mist over, full of pride and joy and gratitude. "Merlin's beard, I don't know myself. But you!" He clasped her by the shoulders and stood back at arm's length, trying to see the girl he'd known in the woman before him. "Please," he said, taking her hand, "come sit, and tell me what happened!"

Hermione motioned to the camp stools, across the fire from where Loki was sitting motionless, ensconced in the chair. As they sat, she gave Sirius a quizzical look. "You don't know? Where have you been that you don't know?"

Sirius shook his head, a look of bewilderment on his face. "I don't actually know that, either. Not for certain. I'll tell you everything about it - but first, please tell me...did Harry make it? Is he...?"

Hermione temporarily laid aside her desire to know all, and took a small delight in being able to share a tiny morsel of good news. "We won. Harry won, actually. Part of Voldemort's soul had been trapped in Harry's scar, and there was a prophecy at the Department of Mysteries about them: 'Neither can live while the other survives.' Harry sacrificed himself so Voldemort would be well and truly dead. He did it for us...for all of us..." Her voice trailed off into silence. She marveled at that, still.

Sirius emitted a small, strangled gasp, but Hermione spoke up quickly. "No," she said, placing a gentle hand on his arm, "you don't understand. He came _back_."

He wasn't as thunderstruck as Hermione might have anticipated. Sirius was silent for a long moment, but it was pensive silence. "He...was dead, and came back?" he mused, staring into the middle distance.

Hermione nodded. "I still don't understand completely how it happened. Harry still won't talk about it much. He doesn't seem bothered by it, though. He's...free."

Sirius's expression was grim. "He had so much riding on him, didn't he? And what do you do, after you've saved the world?"

A chuckling sigh escaped from Hermione. "Apparently, you heal it. He tried going for the Auror squad but it wasn't right for him. He's apprenticing at St. Mungo's." She looked briefly worried, but hid it with a smirk. "Alright, it's your turn. Where have you been? I can hardly believe it's been so long, to look at you."

He ran his fingers through his hair and gave her a sheepish grin. "You may be more right than you know. I don't think it has been that long, for me." Hermione had that eyebrow raised again, but she was still listening, at least. He shook his head to clear it, and started again. "In the Department if Mysteries, Bellatrix pushed me through the Veil. When I landed, I was somewhere else - and still alive."

Hermione's frown returned. "That can't be. She killed you. I heard her use the Killing Curse. You were dead before you fell."

"Actually," he said, measuring his words, "there may be an explanation for that. Where I went, I...met someone, who told me that I couldn't return to my old life. That I could find a way to another place - another world, I thought. She talked of many realms that she had power over, but hinted that there might be another place where I would be allowed to live."

This was the first that Hermione had noticed the change in him - Sirius was less agitated, more quiet of spirit than she'd ever known him to be. Brow furrowed, she listened on.

"I had no idea where I'd end up," he continued. "Could have been on top of a volcano, for all I knew - but what did I have to lose? I followed my nose, and here I am. With this chap." He glanced behind him at the man he'd followed here, then looked again. "Wait," he said, bending over to whisper near Hermione's ear, "he wasn't blue before, was he?"

"No," came a low growl from the recumbent figure, "he wasn't."


End file.
